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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25995790">A Cord of Three</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/westrons/pseuds/westrons'>westrons</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Hobbit - All Media Types</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Gen, Jewish Dwarves, Sweet Memories But Also They Die</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-08-19</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-08-19</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 03:00:09</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,409</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25995790</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/westrons/pseuds/westrons</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>In Ered Luin, Thorin teaches his young sister-sons how to bake bread.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>12</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>A Cord of Three</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>The Durins are baking challah, complete with the bracha (blessing) and musing on why challah is braided (paraphrasing Ecclesiastes). I'm imagining Kíli is the human equivalent of 6-7 y/o and Fíli is roughly bar mitzvah age, so 13. Dwarven-Jewish culture: we absolutely love to see it.</p><p>Also, I'm treating "amrâlimê" as a catch-all term for "my love/loved one," without any distinction for romantic vs. familial vs. platonic love. Because it's extremely cute to have Thorin call his little nephews "my love," I'm not crying.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“The dough is sticking to my hands, Fee!”</p><p>“That means more flour, remember?”</p><p>Two small, chubby, sticky hands reached for the flour pot. Little fingers grasped the rim of the pot, tugged, and—“<em>careful</em>, Kíli!” cried the older Dwarfling, looking on in horror as white flour cascaded from the overturned pot, which was now rolling swiftly toward the edge—</p><p>Thorin caught the pot in midair, fixing his youngest sister-son with a stern gaze. “I do not think this is what your brother had in mind when he said <em> more flour</em>.”</p><p>Kíli’s bottom lip jutted out with a tremble. “I didn’t <em> mean </em> to,” he began, but before he could explain, all of his uncle’s sternness melted away, a warm smile in its place.</p><p>“I know, amrâlimê,” said Thorin, mussing his nephew’s hair. “There is a simple enough solution.” With one hand, Thorin held the pot just below the counter’s edge; with the other, he scooped a great fistful of flour back into its depths. He motioned for Kíli to do the same.</p><p>The little Dwarfling gave him a toothy grin—or tooth<em>less</em>, rather. His front teeth had fallen out only a few days ago. Thorin had been there when it happened. One moment, Kíli was <em> whoop</em>ing for joy high up in the trees, thrilled to have climbed higher than his brother. Fíli had always been the more cautious of the two. In the next moment, Kíli went for a branch just out of reach—his grip slipped, and down he fell, face-first to the ground.</p><p>Thorin rushed to his side, chastising himself for not watching the boy better. It had been his idea to take his sister-sons into the woods of Ered Luin, to stretch their legs in the open air, to watch the sun set and the moon rise. He wanted to show them the constellations, to teach them how to find Durin’s Crown. He would tell them to number the stars. <em> Seven. </em> One for each of the Dwarf-lords of old, back when Mahal formed them from the earth. He would tell them the story of the first time he saw those seven stars shine brightly in the Kheled-zâram of Azanulbizar, the water black as night even as the sun beat down on him from above.</p><p>It had been his idea, this adventure, and so it was his fault if Kíli was harmed. He could already imagine the wrath of Dís if her son was returned anything less than whole. But when he reached the boy, Kíli cupped his milk teeth in his palm, smiling broadly. “Uncle, look!” he said, and with his other hand he poked a finger through the now-bloody gap in his grin.</p><p>Relief had washed over Thorin then, and he mussed Kíli’s hair just as he did now. Before long, the flour was returned to its pot. “There,” said the Dwarf-king, “no harm done.”</p><p>This time, Fíli helped Kíli flour his hands. Together, the brothers finished kneading the dough, until at last it was ready for braiding. Fíli grasped the knife and held it over the dough, but Thorin stayed his hand. “Not yet,” he chided, “you’re forgetting something.”</p><p>At once, Fíli nodded, yellow curls bouncing. He pinched off a piece of dough and handed it to his uncle. Thorin recited the bracha slowly and clearly, cherishing the way the Khuzdul felt on his tongue. When he was done, the brothers spoke in unison: “Amen.” With that, the bit of dough flew into the fire.</p><p>As Fíli took the knife to the dough, Thorin tested his sister-sons. “And what is the meaning in Westron, of the blessing?” Khuzdul was a cradle-tongue, it was true; the Dwarves of Ered Luin could speak it fluently amongst themselves, but Thorin made a point to speak Westron with his nephews. They were royals of the House of Durin—it was fitting that they be learned in the tongues of Elves and Men. Sometimes he spoke Dalish or Sindarin, hoping against hope that his heirs would one day behold Erebor, Dale, even the Greenwood. One day, they would be home.</p><p>Kíli frowned, going over the translation in his head. Fíli was quicker. He continued slicing the dough into equal parts, speaking without looking up: “Blessed are you Mahal our Vala, who created us and sanctified us and commanded us to separate from the dough.”</p><p>“That’s what I was going to say,” whined Kíli.</p><p>“Very good, then, both of you,” said Thorin as Kíli beamed with pride. When Fíli glanced back at his uncle as if to protest that Kíli didn’t say <em> anything</em>, Thorin winked. The older Dwarfling grinned to himself and went back to work.</p><p>Together, the three Dwarves made quick work of the separated dough, rolling them into thin, even strands. When they were finished, Kíli let out a great sigh and wiped his brow, leaving a streak of white flour behind. Thorin moved the strands into place, pinching them at the top where the braid would begin. As if on cue, Kíli asked, “Uncle, why do we braid the bread?”</p><p>Thorin answered his question with another: “What else do braids mean to our people?”</p><p>Kíli considered that. Thorin did not really expect him to know; he was still very young, too young to have his own braids. Even Fíli had only received his braids this past winter. And so when Kíli gave a massive shrug, Thorin turned to Fíli.</p><p>The yellow-haired Dwarfling was confident in his answer. “They can mean many things, depending on the braid and the Dwarf. It depends on the clan, too. The Longbeards, us, we value loyalty and strength above all else. So when a Dwarf gets their braids, it means they’re old enough to be held to account, to be responsible for themselves and for their fellow Dwarves, to honor and defend each other.”</p><p>Thorin nodded in approval. “And why in strands of three?” He tugged Fíli’s middle braid for emphasis. “Why is three better than two, or one?”</p><p>Fíli rolled his eyes and swatted Thorin’s hand away, but he smiled as he did it. “Because…” He faltered here, struggling to find the right words. “A cord of three is not easily broken.”</p><p>It was an old line, well-known enough, from an ancient Khuzdul text. Again, Thorin nodded, pleased. “Two are better than one,” he paraphrased, “for if they fall, one will defend the other, but one alone falls alone. And though one might prevail against another, two will withstand one, and <em> a cord of three is not easily broken</em>.”</p><p>“Right,” grinned Fíli, nodding along with the context, “it’s about strength in numbers. We’re stronger together. When we stand united, bound together <em> like </em> a braid, we prevail. Not that the <em> bread </em> is going to war…” He trailed off, laughing along with Kíli, who seemed positively delighted at the mental image of a loaf of bread donning armor and charging into battle. “But it’s a reminder, like our own braids. We need each other.”</p><p>Thorin could not hide his smile. He was so proud of the fine Dwarf-prince Fíli was becoming. “Well said, my sister-son,” he said, clapping the boy on the back. Fíli glowed from the praise. Yes, Thorin thought with a sigh as they set about braiding, Fíli would make a good king one day.</p>
<hr/><p>Bolg fell before Thorin, black blood pouring from the stump where his head once stood. The giant Orc’s head sat at his feet, pale blue eyes gazing up at him. Slowly, the blade fell from the Dwarf-king’s hand. It clattered against the rocky earth, but the sound seemed distant to Thorin. The battle, too, was muted, even as it raged on around him. Thorin blinked. His vision blurred.</p><p>He was on his knees, though he had not remembered falling. He touched his hand to the bent armor that covered his abdomen, and pulled away—through his dimming eyes, he saw red where his palm should be, and his fingers were suddenly wet and hot. His gaze turned down—there was a pool of blood beneath him now. The pool was spreading. It was spreading fast.</p><p>Thorin collapsed onto his side. He blinked away sweat and tears as he beheld them, already fallen, already dead. One stretching out his hand, reaching for his brother, just out of reach. The other face-down in the dirt, his yellow hair coated in black and red blood.</p><p>They were the last Thorin saw before he was pulled into the darkness.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Deaths are based on the book, so no Orcrist or Azog, and Fíli and Kíli die at Thorin's side as God and Tolkien intended.</p></blockquote></div></div>
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